


Balancing Accounts

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: From a #rafflesweek prompt, "Stuffed Bird: Raffles and Bunny at School". Bunny relates the story of their first kiss.





	Balancing Accounts

It was an unforgettable night when the name of Arthur J. Raffles went down in the history of our school, having come up hero of that year’s key cricket match, but not only because of the air of celebration, nor the raucousness of our fellows, nor even because--thanks only to my unique proximity to the intensely-lauded Raffles--I became, if only for a few hours, the boy one wished to know, if one wished to sit close to Raffles at table, or to light his cigarettes, or fill his cup. Though I happily recall every moment of that jolly evening, what marks it in my personal diary as a memory to keep, is that it was on that very night when I first went blissfully wrong. And it was Raffles who opened the way.

Having then the unrefined tastes and constrained pocketbooks of youths still at school, our cohort did not sip at champagne, nor even a decent Scotch whisky. Instead, the drink of questionable choice had been a cherry-flavoured brandy that burned my throat and drew tears from my eyes from the first sip. Unable to stomach the sickly brew, I merely shammed at an occasional draft from a passing cup, and my fellows were too deep in the festivities to notice my abstinence. Doubtless I was as convivial as any man there, for my senior was being celebrated, and in some way I derived pride from his success; my hours spent mending his torn cricket flannels and carrying his bat-bag surely played a part.

Hours into the event--which had traveled as such parties will from one apartment to another, gaining and losing mates along the way--when the clocks had long since chimed one, it came to pass that a small clutch of men had settled into Raffles’ rooms. A handful played at cards, one snored loudly from the settee, and the rest lounged, less rowdy now, and far deeper in their cups. Raffles had loosened his necktie, and its glinting ruby tack caught the light and drew my eye again and again.

“Bunny, fetch up a few glasses of soda-water, won’t you?” Raffles entreated, and I was to my feet at once, before he had finished the request. “The brandy has gone, I’m afraid, but it will settle better with a bit of fizz poured atop.”

I had to go from the sitting room of the apartment Raffles shared with another senior boy, into a small pantry, where upon a wooden sideboard held a gentleman’s bar. I was amused to note that although there were two bottles of good gin, and another of Scotch whisky--still mostly full--there by the soda and a bowl of limes, Raffles had not offered any of it to his admirers. I was turning glasses upright, testing them in my hands to see if I could manage to carry four without sticking my fingers inside the rims, when I heard from outside the door the voice of my senior downing me to the roomful of partygoers.

“I’ve got to check on that rabbit; it seems even simple requests at times confound him,” said he, and then he was through the door and shutting it behind him.

“I’m not confounded,” I protested in my own defense, and was about to say more when Raffles shocked me by stepping close until I had no choice but to back into a corner. Though it was not in the nature of A.J. Raffles to use physical discipline on his fags, when I smelt the thick alcoholic breath near my face, cowering away from the heat of his chest, I did for a moment think I may be struck, and braced myself for the blow.

“No,” Raffles said, as if in agreement to my assertion, but perhaps he meant it otherwise as well, and then his hands were on the front of my waistcoat, scratching and clutching, and his mouth was against my own. The shock of it stole the breath out of me in a great sigh, and so I could not voice a protest.

Though he had come upon me with some decisive force, his kisses were quite tender, and when I rested my hands upon his, Raffles understood that I did not wish to refuse, and so they softened, brushing and stroking so that my clothes against my chest caused a definitive response.

“All right, Bunny,” whispered Raffles, and it was a question though it sounded as if it was meant to quiet my admittedly electrified nerves. I nodded assent though I could not bring myself to speak aloud a word of acquiescence. In truth, I longed for him to go on kissing me, and to kiss him in return, and as he nipped and suckled upon my lips, I even wished to offer the tip of my tongue, though in those days I was not so brave as I would, in Raffles’ intimate company, later become.

I wound my arms around his back to keep him close, murmuring, “Raffles” into his kiss.

“Call me A.J.,” he said, in a tone that gave me to know to do so was indicative of a more special affinity between us than had gone before. He moistened his lips and I tasted sour cherry and must as he renewed his fervour.

“A.J.,” I breathed against his frisking lips, and he pressed against me, and I against him, in a manner that made plain our mutual passion.

There came a noise from the sitting room, and I started, having nearly forgotten our fellows just the other side of the closed door. Raffles stood firm, and his teeth nipped my chin, and his smile was devilish and sure. Contrarily, I felt so unsure of my knees at that moment I feared stepping away from the wall at my back lest I collapse against the sideboard in a heap of shattered bottles and splashing gin.

“We’ll forget about this, Bunny,” said Raffles ruefully, and I took it as an order like so many others I had taken from him, and nodded my head at him. His lips were flushed dark, I thought from the cherry brandy, but perhaps not.

Never again while at school did Raffles and I have such an encounter, and though I secretly longed for another, I did as expected and put it from my mind. Only years later, after we met again and fell into a thoroughly intimate acquaintance did Raffles reveal to me that he, too, had wished for a repeat performance--that, and more besides--but thought in my drunkenness I had lost all memory of it. I can scarce describe the expression on my dear friend’s face when I revealed I had been sober as a monk that night, and had carried the memories of his gentle kisses and petting hands with no small accompaniment of melancholy through the years.

“All that time,” said he, with a sigh. We were lying together in his bed, then, in his rooms at the Albany, and he had draped me in strings of pilfered pearls that I rolled between finger and thumb, feeling lazy and sublime in the aftermath of our bed-games. “All the kisses we’ve missed!” He sounded truly mournful.

I drew his hand into mine, then, and plucked softly at his fingers. “Well then, A.J., we must make them up.”

“Must we?” he teased, with a bright curl of his lip.

“You of all people know how important it is to balance accounts,” said I.

Raffles’ kisses were still tender, at least until I did offer the tip of my tongue.


End file.
